Riiiiip!
The paper bag split cleanly in half. Marco pulled out a glass bottle with a red label and set it on the equipment division's beat-up workbench.
"I don't really drink. You guys want some grappa?"
"No. We don't touch that stuff in the morning."
At the entrance of the converted workshop deep inside the underground parking garage, the chubby mechanic named Delon shook his head vigorously. "That stuff's got a kick, sure, but it tastes like paint thinner. Honestly, all that homemade Italian liquor tastes the same, practically gasoline."
"You've drunk gasoline before?"
"Of course not," the lanky mechanic named Junker drawled. "Mm... but we have drunk jet fuel."
"Yeah," Delon added. "And afterwards we accidentally landed in Moscow when we farted."
Ugh.
Marco pressed the edge of his palm against his brow, feeling his temples throb.
Is there not a single normal person in the East End Precinct?
He took an envelope from his jacket. "I woke up too early today, didn't have time to bring other booze. But I put in some extra cash, how's that?"
Delon snatched the envelope, emptied the bills out, and he and Junker started counting.
"Three hundred... four hundred... five hundred... six hundred... sixty? Hey, what's with the extra? If you're strapped for cash, we can just take the agreed-upon five hundred. You can bring the booze another time."
"It's... uh... a tip," Marco said quickly. "You know, for the good work. Figure it'll cover a decent bottle somewhere."
"It's enough. More than enough. Don't worry, you're getting your money's worth!" Delon stuffed the cash into a drawer, then he and Junker turned around and yanked the workshop's large door open with a clatter.
"That's it?"
A big, black commercial van sat in the center of the workshop, rugged, crude, and frankly kind of ugly.
"That's it?"
Delon swaggered over and knocked on the side with his knuckles. "Ten-millimeter steel plates with ceramic composite outer layer. V-shaped double-hull underbody. Explosion-proof self-sealing fuel tank. Reinforced radiator. Engine..."
He glanced at Junker. "You explain."
"We wanted to swap the engine for a 3116 diesel, but the fuel consumption and cooling were a problem, so we kept the original," Junker said, running his hand along the hood. "But I replaced it with a GT38 turbo, upgraded the pistons, rods, and injectors. Power's increased at least forty percent. In Gotham now, nobody's gonna out-ram you except maybe a tank."
He slid open the back door. "We removed the prisoner cage and added a few restraint rings. The rest we replaced with squad seats and weapon racks. I mean, judging by your track record, you're not bringing back many living perps anyway."
"Whoa! Whoa!" Marco climbed into the driver's seat, running his hands over the brand-new encrypted radio and the locking rifle mount. "You even put in a new air conditioner!"
"There's also an auxiliary generator and heavy-duty push bars front and back. Ugly, but effective. Rear's got a tear-gas interface," Delon said, looking at the big GCPD lettering painted on the body with a proud expression. "Honestly, it's been years since we've put this much effort into a car. Don't make us look bad."
"No problem. Thank you, both of you." Marco meant it. He knew that besides the risk of falsifying invoices, Bob must have found a way to smooth things over with Internal Affairs' asset inspection. "I'm sure this gave you a lot of trouble."
"Well, yeah," Delon nodded. "But we also padded the numbers a little and made a nice—"
"Hey!" Junker shot him a glare. Delon just shrugged. "It's fine. He's one of Bob's guys."
---
When the newly upgraded van roared to a stop outside Blackgate Prison, Swoverld's head began buzzing again. He spread open the East End paperwork and slowly tapped at the keyboard with two index fingers. After checking the records, he finally gave Marco a kindly smile.
"Otis Flannagan? No problem. Honestly, the more of these poor bastards you take off our hands, the better." Swoverld signed the form without hesitation. "Say hello to Bob for me. I haven't seen him in ages."
This time the escorting guard wasn't Morrison. Marco hadn't caught his name, he only knew the guy's mouth went off like a machine gun the entire way: inmates, officers, delivery companies, even his father's affair, nothing was off-limits. He clasped his hands behind his back, interlocking his fingers to keep from physically covering his ears. When the transfer was finally done, the guard still enthusiastically waved goodbye.
"Hey! Vitale! You're the best partner I've ever chatted with. Next time you come, I'll tell you about the maximum-security guys betting on who eats cockroaches, and the loser gets shanked, man, the scene was—"
"Next time. Definitely next time."
Marco pushed Otis forward, walking briskly toward the exit without looking back. Faintly behind him, the farewell continued, "Next time for sure, I'll tell you the whole thing..."
Not until he escaped into the van did Marco finally exhale. Even getting caught in a flashbang hadn't been this painful. He eyed Otis' flimsy prison garment, shook his head, and turned on the heater.
"This won't do, you need a change of... Mamma Mia!"
Something under Otis' loose uniform suddenly darted upward along his torso. Then, from the collar, a gray mouse head popped out. A plump mouse tumbled from the neckline onto Otis' lap.
"What the... Agh! What the hell is that?!"
Even though he knew Otis could control rats, having one suddenly appear right next to him was a whole different feeling.
"I'm sorry, Officer!" Otis quickly scooped up the mouse and cupped it in his hands. "This is my friend Bastien... He's very well-behaved. No diseases. He won't cause trouble."
The mouse seemed to understand, standing upright in his palms and nodding quickly.
"It really understands what you're saying?"
"Yes. Actually... I can basically understand what the mice are saying, and they'll listen to me too."
Even though he'd long known about this ability, Marco still felt there was something deeply wrong about it.
"Okay, fine, the mice listen to you. But wasn't your job before this... catching mice?" Marco shook his head. "This is even more ridiculous than... I don't know, a vegan working at a steakhouse."
He glanced at Bastien. "You can keep him, but you have to guarantee he won't chew on wiring or fuel lines in the car."
"No problem!" Otis and Bastien's heads bobbed up and down in sync.
"Excellent!"
Passing through the commercial district, he took Otis into a small clothing shop and spent just under a hundred dollars on some winter clothes, sending him to the back of the van to change. He also bought a bag of peanuts and tossed it to Bastien.
"If you shit in this car, I'll..."
Marco twisted his left hand, crushing a few peanuts into powder in his palm. Bastien's jaw dropped. He nodded frantically. Then he sniffed the peanuts, eyes lighting up, and dove in to munch happily.
Otis came back wearing an out-of-season down jacket. The style was outdated, but the material was thick and sturdy. He returned to the front seat, tucked Bastien and the peanuts into his coat pocket, then carefully wiped every peanut crumb off the seat with a tissue before gingerly sitting back down.
"Thank you, Officer. You even bought food for him."
"It's just a snack. But you'd better keep him from peeing in the car," Marco repeated. "Right, now the serious part: overturning your conviction."
Otis' eyes went wide. Even Bastien peeked out of the pocket.
"We'll meet the chief first. He's agreed, but it's going to be tough. First problem: the officer who handled your case is an idiot colleague of mine. I doubt he'll admit to what happened."
"I can confront him face-to-face!"
"That's the issue... You need to understand, he had no grudge against you. He just grabbed someone at random to fill his numbers. And he's handled so many wrongful arrests he can't even remember who you are. So he can't recall the situation at all, meaning he can't admit anything."
Otis slowly lowered his head. After a long silence, he choked out a bitter laugh. "So... so that's how it is..."
He clamped his mouth shut and covered his face with his hands. Bastien climbed from his pocket onto his shoulder, squeaked twice, then returned, dragging a peanut out with him.
"Dwelling on the past won't help," Marco said as he started the engine. "At least now there's hope, right? Also, don't go around announcing you can talk to mice. The department doesn't exactly encourage that kind of thing."
---
Bob had been feeling triumphant recently, though also a bit uneasy. He took a cup off the coffee machine, raised it for a calming sip, when suddenly there were two knocks, and the door clicked open. A head poked in sideways.
"Hey! What are you doing? Can't you just walk in normally?" He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee. Marco quickly withdrew his head, then entered properly with Otis in tow.
"Didn't know if you had visitors. Chief, this is Otis Flannagan, we came up the back stairs."
Bob set down the cup, lit a cigarette, handed one to Otis, and tapped the table.
"Sit. But if you smoke, stay away from him, he hates the smell." He pointed at Marco. "Otis, I heard you've got a lot of connections among... the lower levels?"
"Uh... lower levels?" Otis held the cigarette awkwardly. He had just barely settled onto the chair when he jumped back up. "Y-yes..."
Remembering what Marco had told him, he assumed "lower levels" meant mice. He nodded rapidly. "Yes... I can have them look for people... any kind of person. They can get inside homes too."
"That's great. I didn't expect you to have such a wide network." Bob grinned. "To be blunt, I'm not helping you out of charity. If I overturn your conviction, you'll work for us. Deal? If you agree, we move on. If not, you go right back to Blackgate."
"N-network?" Otis blinked, but the rest of the words scared him so badly he didn't think any further. He raised his right hand. "I swear, I agree!"
"No need to make it sound like you're getting married." Bob turned to Marco. "Now for the good news. First: you deal with Fleck, that idiot, yourselves. Rough him up a bit and he'll admit to anything, even collapsing the Soviet Union. Just don't kill him. Second: last night I contacted Paul Perrino. He's agreed in principle to support us."
"Huh? Perrino?"
The name stunned Marco. That prosecutor was close to Mayor O'Brian, and had a rather notorious reputation. He'd expected someone righteous and upright, but...
"Don't be stupid. You thought we'd go to Dent?" Bob snorted, flicking ash from his cigarette. "Those types shout about justice and rooting out corruption. They'll make such a spectacle the entire judicial system will come down on you. I told Perrino someone has a personal grudge against Joshua and wants to use this retrial to hit him. Perrino happily quoted his price."
"See, it's easy to work with greedy people, just negotiate terms. Working with idealists is far more complicated." He pulled a requisition slip from a drawer and tossed it onto the table. "Take him to pick up his work gear and temporary ID. Find him an office in the shed next to the supply depot. We need to see whether your friend here is worth the trouble."
"Got it. I'll take him now. Oh... Chief, one thing you should be prepared for." Marco hesitated, then decided he had to say it. "The van is fantastic... but its fuel consumption is insane."
"Don't worry about that." Bob burst into loud laughter. "There's plenty of oil in this world. Our military always finds a way to bring it back, don't they?"